


Benedict Cumberbatch's Fanmail Manager

by EternalFangirl



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-04-20 15:03:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4791779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternalFangirl/pseuds/EternalFangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A woman with a past and a tendency of looking over her shoulder has a couple of chance encounters with Benedict Cumberbatch, and ends up saving his life. Benedict, in turn, asks this intriguing fangirl if she will manage his fan mail for him. What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a pre-written author’s note, since I keep thinking of stuff to explain before I can begin. So, I am going to put it all here, in this note, and post it when I post this fanfic online.
> 
> I started writing this fanfiction when Sophie Hunter was a name the fandom hadn’t heard before. It was before she was Benedict’s fiancée, and so, just… yeah. Keep that in mind.
> 
> I know that usually BenedictxOFC fanfics are written with an OFC who doesn’t know him, or knows him vaguely. I know that is how it should be, but I wanted to explore what would happen if it were an actual fangirl. In real life, I would like Benedict to keep his distance from us, because, well, let’s admit it: we are crazy, and he deserves a hell of a lot more than the lot of us. But, the beauty of this piece is, it is fiction.
> 
> Maybe it will feel strange how quickly Benedict starts conversing regularly with me, or the arrangement we begin with, but seriously, guys, come on. He’s a very private man and we scare the shit out of him anyways. This is fiction, and if I have to write it, I need these circumstances to happen. Everybody who knows him says he is extremely sensitive, and I have used that as a focal point in the earliest chapters. Also, I have used general horoscope predictions for people born on the 19th of July to actually characterize Benedict. 
> 
> I have no experiences that can aid me in writing this story, but I have Google.
> 
> I probably shouldn’t even be writing this story. It’s as fiction as fiction gets.
> 
> I only ask that you guys be calm and considerate, since this is my first time writing real person fanfiction, and tell me any and all errors you find. It has only been eight months since I saw my first Sherlock episode, so I know you know more than me.
> 
> I need you guys to help. Please. Let’s make this a collaborative effort.
> 
> Some of you lucky people have met Benedict. Others have not been so lucky (like me), but all of you are fangirls, and you know we think in quotes, in song lyrics, and in things that hardly make sense to normal people. We have to tone down the fangirl aspects of our speech before we open our mouths. As such, I have put my thoughts in italics ( _like this_ ). Italics in speech, on the other hand, are for putting emphasis on a word or phrase during speech. Sorry if it sounds confusing. It really is not.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time and energy (and interest) to read my little story.

The women sitting in front of me on the Tube don’t like me.

 

They don’t know me. Since I am only twenty-six years old and look my age, I doubt they know I am a divorcee mother to a sweet five-year-old girl. They are middle-aged women staring at me like I am an inmate of the London Zoo, and even though they are not conversing with either me or each other, I know. I can see the thoughts swirling inside their heads, congealing to form dark opinions of me.

 

The reason? My hoodie says, ‘Keep Calm and Perhaps You Could Put Away Your Harpoon’.

 

I have dealt with derision, mockery, bafflement, disdain, outright hatred, and everything in between from a lot of people about my obsessions. 

 

That was probably why I had no friends. No  _real_  friends that is. When I was little, the characters in my storybooks became my best friends, and they took me on daring adventures. I devoured the books in my school library, and begged the librarian for more. Later, as I entered college, I discovered TV shows that were tightly written and fast-paced, and just  _different_ from the daily soaps my country had to offer. As a by-product of my obsession, I developed an American accent which I had to hide every time someone was near enough to hear me. I was ridiculed sharply for everything I liked, from Harry Potter to supporting gay rights. This ridiculing was often done by own mother, who soon grew tired of waiting for me to grow up.

 

In her defense, I was (am) obsessed. I quote references from TV shows in the middle of sophisticated conversations, and consider characters to be actual people. Where I come from, that says Freak with a capital F. I am a typical fangirl, but still, in those days, everyone around me was waiting for me to grow the hell up. While they waited, they married me off at twenty-one to a man who soon realized I was a Freak. And proceeded to beat the shit out of me at every occasion because I was (in his mind) a dumb bitch with no brains who had castles in mind when she should be servicing her man after a hard day of work.

 

It took me a messy divorce with an abusive bastard to realize I was a fangirl through and through, and being one didn’t make me any less intelligent, responsible, or self-sufficient.

 

The therapist I had consulted during the court case said that my affinity for strong heroines came from my need to be like them, and that my formative years had laid the groundwork for the abuse I suffered in my marriage. I think that whatever my upbringing, I should have found the strength to do what needed to be done from the get-go. It took  _him_ threatening to kill my daughter to make me realize I was being a shitty mother, and this could not go on. No matter what Mom said, what society said, I was going to get out of the hellhole I was in.

 

And long story short, I have stopped giving a fuck as to what others think of me since then.

 

I waved cheerily at the scandalized oldies staring at the word ‘perhaps’ across my boobs.

 

And then I arrived at Bakerloo station. Tough ladies didn’t matter anymore, did they?

 

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

 

Okay, so it’s a lot more crowded that I thought it would be. There were big orange barricades to keep us away from the active filming area, and we were pretty much crowding the street. It looked like an international youth convention of some sort, to be honest. There were people of all types. I liked the appreciative looks at my T-shirt, the snickers, and the warmth. I am not a freak, anymore. By most standards, I am just a lowly fan.

 

My new friends include Niamh, a Brit with dark hair and a T-shirt that says I believe in Sherlock Holmes. Anna has ‘Miss Me?’ written across the front of her T-shirt. The youngest is Lillin, a girl with braces and a very shy manner. She is the only one out of us who isn’t wearing fandom clothing. She was actually wearing a school uniform, and even though she wouldn’t admit it, we knew she had skipped school today for this. These girls have been here since eight this morning, and I am late in comparison. In my defense, none of them look old enough to have school-going daughters.

 

But they let me stand next to them at the front, griping a bright-orange rail, and that was awesome. We were barely talking now, having chatted away in quotes. Even though we were looking avidly at the setting up of the cameras a couple of meters from us, we were all on the look-out for a head of dark curls.

 

“There!”

 

My yell was hardly heard over the massive uproar that was heard as Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman walked out of the door now reading ‘221B Baker Street’. They were followed closely by Mark Gatiss and Nick Hurran, the director. Nick was pointing to a taxi being backed into position by the crew, and talking to Ben, who had his head buried in the script in Mark’s hands. Oh, to catch a glimpse of that script!

 

All four of them looked up when the cheer went out. Apparently, when they had gone in, there hadn’t been that much of a crowd. Martin grinned at us—I swear he looked straight at us—as Ben smiled and said ‘Hello,’ a thousand times. I could only read his lips, because all I could hear were shrieks. And not all of them came from others.

 

When I had finally realized I was free for the first time to do whatever I wanted—granted it be nothing but the best for my girl—I had realized that I could be one of those crazy girls I had always envied on YouTube. I could embrace my obsessions, instead of waiting for them to pass. And look at me now. I did it. For the first time in the month since Vijay’s arrest, I felt again like that giddy, innocent fangirl I was before.

 

Ben looked like perfection personified, though I might be biased. He had that deep frown between his forehead that appears every time he’s outside in the sun, but he was smiling. Both he and Martin were just waving at the crowd, smiling a little and talking to each other out of the corner of their mouths. Probably noticing we were all bat-shit bonkers about them.

 

The scene was still being set up, cameras moving into position, but I didn’t care about them anymore. My eyes were drinking Benedict up, and I was glad he wasn’t looking in my direction. I am pretty sure my grin was creepy.

 

A jerky movement at the top of the building caught my reluctant attention, and I noticed a camera being lowered too fast. It took me a fraction of a second to realize what was happening.

 

The bulky production camera was falling—and it was going to hit Benedict.


	2. Chapter 2

I am not exactly a hundred percent sure what happened. I don’t know why I did what I did. It was knee-jerk, I swear.

Even as everyone around me started screaming and pointing, I was moving. In a blur of motion, I had climbed over the barricade and taken a flying leap towards Ben.

Even in that split second that I was in the air, I thought, “What the fuck am I doing?” Then I got distracted by Ben’s long neck as he glanced upwards.

I collided with him so hard it rocked my teeth in their sockets. A few might even have come loose. My chin had hit his shoulder, making me bite my tongue really bad, and we both fell backwards as a  _whoosh_ of air escaped me. The rest of my body collided with his just a fraction of a second later, and there was nothing romantic about the way every muscle in my body protested at the smack of inertia. My hands somehow found some sort of purchase on his head—one wrapped around his nape and the other round the back of his head, so that I looked like a clingy girlfriend with my nose in his ear.

We toppled backwards, ungracefully slumping to the pavement, and my hands got stuck beneath his head, the skin at the back of my hands splitting open. I had barely caught my breath and begun to apologise when it escaped me again in a pained shriek as something weighed down on my calf with a sickening wet thud.

I was squealing in his ear, I know. But a fucking camera had just dropped on my (literally) bloody foot, so I didn’t exactly care about temporary hearing loss.

There was an awful lot of noise. People—crew—were pulling me off of Ben even as he lay there, kind of dazed. I was pretty dazed myself. What the bloody fuck just happened? Niamh and Anna were next to me in a second, and I was glad. They pulled me up, and I tried to stand. Cumberbitches were crowding around me in a huge mass of concern. They had all leaped up over the barricades. Anna and Niamh had been right on my heels, probably to do the same fucking stupid thing as I did.

The intense pain in my foot made me look down. I really wish I hadn’t. Right. Hospital, now.

* * *

“Mummy?”

I looked to the foot of my temporary bed, and felt my eyes prick at the sight of my little girl bravely holding back tears. Her chin was wobbly, though, and she was chewing her lip something fierce. “Mummy is hurt? Lisa said—”

I will not cry. “No, baby,” I said in a suspiciously wobbly voice. “Mummy just had something heavy fall on her because Mummy was a jackass who acted without thinking. And that something was very heavy, so Mummy now needs to get her leg fixed.” I had vowed never to lie to my daughter, once, but I don’t think the drugs they had poured down my throat were helping me be tactful. “Did you thank Lisa for picking you up from school?”

“Yes, she did,” Lisa, our next-door neighbour and currently my only friend in London, said as she pulled back the curtain and stepped up to my bed. When the divorce had been finalized last month and I had known I was going to relocate to London, I had asked for help finding an apartment in London from the Cumberbitches on Twitter. Lisa had found me the apartment next to hers in Dudden Hill Lane, and had helped me settle.

“You said the A-word,” Maya said. “Mummy, does it hurt?” She was looking curiously at my calf now. The bandage was a bit too tight, but I was chock-full of pain-killers, so nothing hurt. I shook my head no. Maya kept staring avidly at the bandage. Then she kissed the top of my ankle. “There. All better. Can we go home now?”

I will  _not_ bawl like a baby.  _I will not_. “N- no, sweetie. They are running some tests right now. They wanna know everything’s okay before they let me leave.” Before she got any more worried about it, I changed the subject. “How- how was school, love? Tell Mummy all about it while we wait for the test results.”

“I’d rather hear all about your day,” Lisa muttered. “Leaping on Benedict Cumberbatch. Holy wow, girl. I said I wanted to jump him, but you kinda took that literally, didn’t you?” Before I could reply that it hadn’t exactly been a picnic for me, she said, “Jesus, you woke me up. I need coffee. Wanna go get some munchies, cupcake?” she asked Maya.

“May I, Mommy? Please?” Maya is really polite when she needs to be. And she knows the exact way to look at me to melt my heart. “I am hungwy.”

That does it. I start to muse about the manipulative power of my five-year-old as she leaves me all alone on a curtained bed while going to get something to eat from a wending machine, accompanied by an 18-year-old who woke up at noon.

The nurse who had bandaged my foot peeked into my curtain. “You have a visitor,” she said shortly in a bored voice.

“Erm, no, that can’t be right,” I tried to explain. “I don’t know anyone else in England.”

But she had left by the time I finished my sentence, pulling the curtain back to allow in my mystery visitor: a man with curly black hair, piercing silver eyes that had a tendency to turn green at the drop of a hat, iconic cheekbones, and bow lips. He was tall, five feet, eleven point six five inches to be exact. He was, in short, Benedict Cumberbatch.

I need to call the nurse back. She made a mistake; I  _do_ have a concussion. “NURSE! Come back here, please. You need to check me again! I have a  _concussion_! My brain is probably  _bleeding out! Help!!_ ”

The left eyebrow had been climbing higher and higher as I yelled with increased panic. It was threatening to disappear in Benedict’s hairline when he said, “Erm, hello. My name is Benedict Cumberbatch.”

Every thought process in my brain just completely shut down. I couldn’t think.  I couldn’t breathe. I was gonna puke. I was going to fucking die.

He was looking at me with a healthy dose of wariness, though. He looked as though he was unsure of this, and scared of me. Of what I might do. There was a slight frown between those perfect eyebrows, and the cupid’s bow most was stretched into a smile that was encroaching on grimace territory. That, if nothing else, made me realise he was here to thank me, and he wished he didn’t have to, because fans are scary to him. If nothing else,  _that_  made me take a deep breath and vow to act like a normal human being.

His gaze trailed down to my bandaged leg. I was suddenly aware of the fact that my jeans was ripped, my hair was a mess, and I looked worse than usual. Great.

Oh, well. At least I still have my manners.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Cumberbatch.” And if my voice was just a little squeaky, well, fuck it. I was doing the best I could.

He started visibly. He had possibly expected me to start screeching again. His smile came a bit more naturally. “Hello, Miss—um—Kapoor, is it?”

Holy Mother of God! He asked the receptionist my name. And he remembered it. I am going to die a happy gimp.

“I came to, erm, thank you.”

“Please, have a seat, sir. And do call me Faith. It’s the much-easier English translation of my name.” I motioned towards the single uncomfortable-looking stool I had at my disposal. “I am sorry if it might be a little bit uncomfortable. And, um, sorry for freaking out when I saw you. Not to mention, you know, jumping on you like that before, and–” _Rambling, rambling, RAMBLING, YOU IDIOT! Shut the fuck up!_ “So, yeah,” I finished lamely.

He just shook his head and sat down, running a hand through the hair at the back of his head[1]. “Does it hurt?” he asked, gesturing towards my foot. Then, before I could answer, he grimaced. “I am sorry, that was a stupid question, of course it hurts. I am just a little flustered, is all. Why did you do that? You could have hurt yourself a lot more!”

Okay, someone probably had a ton of coffee[2]. Why the fuck  _did_ I do it? “I don’t know why, Mr. Cumberbatch. Saving you was kind of an instinct, more than a fully-formed decision. The camera was heavy. It was headed straight for your head. I didn’t think. Are you all right?”

“What? Me? Yes, I am fine, fine. Thank you. I came here to thank you, and instead I am berating you for saving my thick head. I am sorry. Why are your hands bandaged?” His silver eyes were fixed on my right hand, which I was using to crush the white hospital linen so that I could keep at least an illusion of sanity. He was sitting on my right, so that was the hand he could see. I had already lost sensation in the fingers of my left hand, which I had fisted in the linen so bad that my knuckles were white.

Well, someone likes to switch topics faster than my toddler. “I scraped them when I—we—fell, sir. It’s nothing, really. A little wear and tear. The nurse was just very thorough, is all. I am fine.”

He really looked worried. “Thank you, once again.”

“You are most welcome,” I replied.

Cue awkward silence, in which I tried—and failed—to stop staring at him. In my defence, he was staring the shit out of my leg again. I unconsciously curled my toes. They weren’t even painted. I was looking for a job in London nowadays, and never seemed to have enough time.

He was wearing a dark blue shirt over simple black jeans, but the casual look only accentuated his wonderfully high cheekbones and his perfect face. He looked out of his depth and at a loss of what to say, so I tried to reassure him. “I won’t be pressing any sort of charges or anything. And I don’t want anything from you, Mr. Cumberbatch.” He looked up. “I promise I won’t be any sort of trouble. Please don’t worry. As for the wounds, I have had worse. It is just a ragged cut with a little swelling. Nothing a couple of Advil won’t numb. Hopefully. I just needed some stitches, and now that I am all fixed up, I will just go home.”

He was staring at me now, giving me the full attention of those laser-blue eyes. I wanted to squirm, but resisted the urge. His head was cocked to the side, and he wasn’t even smiling anymore. He looked like he was trying to figure me out. Outside, a man coughed. He sounded like he was right outside the curtain. One of his security people, I suppose. The fact that he wasn’t alone in a place where he could be mobbed by fans made me glad.

“Tell me something.” His voice was a little harsher. Had he just smoked a cigarette? He tilted his head, like he was trying to figure me out. “Why did you do that?”

Okay, this was going to sound creepy, no matter how well I dressed it up. I shrugged. “Short version? I am a fangirl.”

He smiled just a little. “That’s it?”

“Well, that is the reason I did it.”

“I didn’t–” Crap, he’s flustered again. Damn it. “I—well, um, thank you. You did that because you are a fangirl? That is all there was to it?”

I smiled at him. “Well, then. I suppose you didn’t notice the other fangirls right behind me. I wasn’t the only one who ran to save your life. I just reached you first, sir.” He looked stunned. Having just been shoved to the ground, he really must not have noticed all the others. “I know you have very stunted interactions with us, Mr. Cumberbatch. You don’t know us, and that is how it should be. You engage with us on a small scale when you have the time or opportunity, and you really appreciate the fact that we exist. You do genuinely like us, and we are immeasurably grateful for that. Because interacting with your fans is not your job. Fangirling about you, well, it  _is_ my job.” I stopped to take a breath. “We scare you. To a certain extent, I know that. Reading hate blogs or finding kinky letters written to you will do that. And let’s not forget the talk show hosts and journalists who like to thrust weird fan stuff in your hands to extract a titillating reaction from you that can earn them their next pay check. But there are actually fans out there who love you, who adore you, and owe you so much. I am just a random chick who saved you from a falling camera. Don’t sweat it, sir. A helluva lot of others would do the same.”

My speech didn’t appear to be helping. There is no hoping to have him at ease. He was too tense. And his eyes were wide. He looked so cute. “I have absolutely no idea how to answer that.”

I smiled. “Then don’t, Sir.”

“But—you could have seriously injured yourself. Hit your head.”

I nod. It’s the truth, and I have no idea where he is going with this. I am having a normal conversation with  _Benedict Cumberbatch!_ There is a very slight ripping sound as I finally rip through the flimsy cotton in my left hand.  _Down, girl. We will freak out later._

Before I can assure him that I  _did_  hit my head but survived, my little girl popped back in.

“Mummy, there’s a really big man outside,” was the first thing she said as she climbed over to my left side on the bed to snuggle against me. The words were spoken through a healthy bite of candy.

Since her vantage point hadn’t been very good before, it took her a little while to notice Benedict. But as soon as she did, she snuggled closer to me. “Mommy,” she began in a whisper that I am sure she thought was inaudible to Benedict. “There is a really big man inside.”

I smiled at Benedict a little before I extracted my daughter from the nape of my neck. “Where’s Lisa, honey?”

“Her Mummy called. She had to go, but she saw me come to your bed from the doorway,” Maya said, her eyes still on Benedict.

Lisa is going to be exceptionally mad at karma for fucking up her chance to meet Ben. “Would you like to say hello?”

Silence.

“Hello,” started Benedict, when he saw my daughter was really nervous. “My name is Benedict. What’s yours?” Subconsciously, he slouched a bit and smiled, trying to put my daughter at ease.

“Maya,” she said shyly, hardly looking at him. Then, when his encouraging smile widened, she looked up at him properly. And narrowed her eyes recognition. “You’re the story man!”

I had been silently enjoying the opportunity to observe Maya interact with a man. There was a lack of grown men in her life, and I didn’t want her to grow up too shy or constricted. Her excited stage whisper went a long way to quell my fears.

“Erm, sorry, who?” said Story Man.

Ignoring my injured leg, Maya climbed over me to plop her cute little butt on my right side. The better to look Benedict in the eye as she explained. “You read me the story about the little red hen! The hen wanted to make some bread, but the cat, rat and dog didn’t help her, so she made it all by herself. And then she ate it!” By the end there, Maya was beaming at Benedict, happy for his smart, sassy hen, and feeling triumphant in her glory.

The speed with which she had related the summary of the story was reminiscent of Sherlock, but Benedict had avidly heard the whole thing, and was now grinning at the recognition. “Ah, I remember. Did you like that story?”

I smiled at the way he looked my daughter right in the eye, speaking  _to_  her, not  _at_  her.

“Yes!” Maya squirmed against me. “I  _loved_  it, and then Mummy and I went and bought _eight_ new books, and we read them  _all_ that week! Have you read  _Clip Clop_?”

“Erm… No.”

Maya was aghast. Her new friend hadn’t read her favourite book! That was tragic, and unfortunate, and had to be rectified immediately. “Would you like to borrow mine?”

He smiled, and it didn’t even seem patronising. “Sure. I am in a bit of a hurry right now, but if I ever get the opportunity, I would like to hear you read it.” He looked up at me with those smiling eyes. “She’s a wonderful child.”

“Yes, she is, isn’t she?” I asked, ruffling Maya’s hair. “Thank you.”

After that, the moments passed away swiftly. By the time Benedict left, I had told him I was a divorcee writer (well, I wanted to be a writer) looking for a job in London to support me and Maya. I asked him a little bit about how hard it was to do motion capture. Once Maya realized that he was Smaug, she spent the next few minutes pleading with him to be nice to Bilbo Baggins, and to return the mountain. He had taken it in stride, charmingly posing for a couple of pictures and giving me an autograph. I asked one for Lisa too.

“Could you write ‘Good luck for your surgery’ on this one, please?” I asked. At his inquisitive glance, I explained. “Lisa was just diagnosed with breast cancer. She is getting one of her breasts removed next week. So she sort of wrote you a letter last month asking for a good luck wish, but… um, well, we’re kinda running out of time…”

Oh fuck. I have stunned him again. Shit. Crap.  _Merde_.  _Keep it light, you fucking twat._  But I needed the autograph for Lisa.

He quietly wrote the autograph ( _I hope your surgery goes exceptionally well, Lisa. Stay awesome and thank you for liking me and my work. Hoping for a long and happy life for you, Benedict Cumberbatch._ ), a slight frown on his features. Then he chuckled when Maya demanded an autograph of her own.

Just as he was leaving, the nurse returned with my test results, and I was free to go. Benedict escorted both of us to the main hall, where he veered off with his security to slip out some obscure entrance. As he bid us farewell, he calmly explained he had taken care of my bills. He gave me his agent’s number, insisting I call him through the agent if I have any other bills[3]. My vehement refusals were overridden, he took my number ( _breathe, just breathe, don’t faint on him_ ), and then he was gone.

Before he left, he asked someone to call me a taxi. I am not sure the taxi driver appreciated the fare, because I shrieked his ear out the entire way home. Maya was laughing at me, unsure of the reason, but I hugged her (maybe a bit too tight) and kissed her, and cuddled her, then shrieked some more.

Holy Mother of God, I just met Benedict Cumberbatch. One on one. Right. Back to shrieking, if you will please excuse me.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] You and I both know he does that when he is nervous.
> 
> [2] Coffee makes Benedict Cumberbatch ramble.
> 
> [3] As this lucky fan states here, he does that.


	3. Chapter 3

I am scared for Maya. Now that I have gone crazy, who is going to take care of my baby?

I have never had a pet in my life. My parents never had one, I never had one, and quite frankly, dogs scare the shit out of me.

And now I have gone and adopted one. For a couple hundred pounds, when my job itself is, well, non-existent. I can see my therapist shaking her head right now.

It’s not my fault! It was right there in the street, looking rumpled and lost and alone, the picture of cute abject terror as it ran into Maya’s legs when I picked her up from school. There was neither collar nor tag, and I Googled what to do while the little thing yapped and bounced around my little baby. She fell in love with the tiny ball of fur. Then  _I_  fell in love with the tiny ball of fur. And then all hell broke loose.

A week later, my daughter asked for a puppy.  _That_ puppy, actually. And gutless sap that I am, I contacted  _All Dogs Matter_ , the foundation I had left him with the first day. Now, for better or for worse, he belongs to us.

The thing is, I have always been afraid of dogs. I am afraid of him, now. Deathly afraid I am going to step on that little pup and kill it, and then PETA is going to be out for my blood, after my daughter is done pulling out my toenails. I have been told it is a Bedlington X Whippet Lurcher, but I think that name is entirely too big for something that tiny. He is extremely energetic, and totally adorable with his shaggy mane of hair.

So of course I named him Sherlock.

Unlike his namesake, Sherlock has not died on me (yet), and I have become my daughter’s new best person on the planet. It was not a decision I took lightly, and I can count on one hand the number of nights I have slept a full night ever since Maya asked for him. But if I didn’t kill him this last week, I daresay I won’t kill him at all. Yipee-ya-yay, motherfucker!

And dare I say we look good strutting about like we own the world? It took Sherlock a while to get used to his leash and collar, and it took me longer to do the same, but we have finally settled into a rhythm. Maya is in school, and I have an interview for the post of personal secretary this afternoon. But right now, Sherlock and I are both enjoying the early-morning air and the joy of strutting down a street.

Or we were, until Sherlock decided to chase a random—and imaginary—squirrel. With his honed hunter’s senses, my tiny ball of shaggy black fur ran down the street like a demented hellhound, with poor little me dragging behind like an after-thought. My yelp of surprise was hardly audible over his excited little yips, and the consequent curses and pleas made little headway. Sherlock was on the trail of something, and a human begging him to stop for one fucking second had about as much effect on him as the fact that the something didn’t exist.

“Sherlock! Stop, you irritating twat!  _DON’T_!” I yelled in my American accent, making people stop and stare. “Stop!” Any love I had for him five seconds ago was quickly evaporating. I decided to stop screeching, attract less attention, and let him come to a natural halt. It couldn’t get any worse, could it?

Note to self: Never  _ever_ think that statement ever again. Life takes it as a challenge.

Sherlock dashed into a café, and all my tugging and pulling couldn’t stop him, since I didn’t exactly want to strangle the poor thing with his own brand new collar. I followed at a pace I hoped desperately was a brisk trot, but going from the amused grins from the patrons, was more like a dog-dragging-me-please-help gallop.

Weirdly enough, karma seems to believe I must have boiled live kittens in a past life, because Sherlock made a beeline for an occupied table and hid underneath it, finally stopping his infernal yipping. A little winded, I collided with the edge of the table, and tried to catch enough breath to apologize to the occupant.

“Erm, hey! Are you alright? Jesus!” said a deep, rich baritone in a North London accent.

_Oh, crumpets._

Definitely should have strangled the dog.

I straightened up slowly, and smiled—grimaced—at Benedict. “Good morning, Mr. Cumberbatch.”  _Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let him know._  “I am so sorry to disturb your breakfast.” I glanced at his table, and saw the solitary cup of coffee. “Your coffee. Your—I mean, time. Waste your time, that is. And interrupt you…”  _Babbling, babbling, BABBLING, YOU MEWLING QUIM! SHUT UP!_ “Erm, so, well, sorry.”  _Now he knows. Let it go, let it go…_

He smiled. Benedict Cumberbatch smiled, and suddenly I didn’t care I had made my ass of myself. He looked incredibly wonderful—and yes, I admit I am biased—in a burgundy shirt and gray slacks I could barely make out, since he was sitting down. Did I mention he was smiling? I will be a freak every day, if that means he will smile, his whole face kind of crinkling into folds so that all you want to do is reach up and pinch his cheeks.

Sherlock barked happily from underneath his table. Thankfully, that made me realize I looked like an idiot. “Erm, if I could just get Sher—my puppy from underneath the table, I could leave you to your coffee, Sir. May I?”

“I know you, don’t I?” He said, tilting his head like Khan. “I have seen you somewhere.”

Oh, perfect. “Yep,” I said. “I am the freak who jumped on you a couple of weeks ago… The one you came to see at the hospital?” I could see the understanding dawn in his eyes. “Yeah, that one.”

“Oh,” he said absently. “I was just thinking about you.”

_The fuck he said? Moi? He was thinking about the freak that jumped on him and almost strangled him?_

He saw the gobsmacked expression on my face (hey, it could have been a lot worse—I could have been thinking baby names) and started babbling in that adorable way of his. “No, I mean I was—you know, in an abstract sense,” he said, flapping his hands around, a little wildly. “I was thinking about that girl, Lara? The one with the surgery?”

I smiled. “Lisa.” Recognising the name, Sherlock gave another excited yip. “Her surgery was last week. She squealed when she saw your message, Mr. Cumberbatch. Thank you so very much. It made her year.”

“Everything went well with the surgery, I hope?”

“Oh yes, it did,” I replied. “Pretty textbook. The anaesthetist was a Cumberbi—er, one of your fangirls,” I amended, since he didn’t like the term, and I hadn’t found a substitute yet that was as good. “They chatted about your autograph till Lisa fell asleep.”

He looked satisfied at that. “Erm, good. Good. Your name is… Faith, yeah?” Then, suddenly realizing I was still standing, he gestured to the chair in front of him. “Please, have a seat. There really is something bothering me. I would like your input.”

My  _input_?  _My_  input?  _My input?_  No matter how many inflictions I put on those two words, I still couldn’t quite believe it.

I sat. “Right. My input. Erm, my input?”

He looked uncomfortable too. One-on-one interaction with any fangirl will do that to a celebrity. “Yes, kind of. I… Well, see, I tried to—um, why do you… Why do you people do this?”

Yeah, that made sense, Babbledict. “Go for walks with overactive puppies?”

That seemed to disperse the tension around his mouth. “No, erm… Make me understand. You said you did something a lot of the other fans there would do.  _Why?_ ”

“I told you, sir,” I said, shrugging. “It wasn’t a conscious decision. In fact, I almost regret it now, considering I am on every Setlock video on YouTube. GIFs, sir, there are GIFs of my leap! I am on Tumblr! I have never been so glad I never posted a personal picture.”

“GIFs?”

“The slightly moving pictures? Like the Zoolander truck thing they made with the cast of Star Trek?”

“Oh,” he said, blinking. “They are called GIFs?”

_Aww, yeah, you adorable baby._ “Yes, sir.”

“You don’t have to call me that, you know,” he smiled. His entire face creased back into itself. Even his eyes smiled. His beautiful, perfect, eyes. “Really, you don’t. Please tell me something.”

_Anything you want. I will tell you everything. If I don’t have the answers, I will Google them._ “Yeah?”

“Would others like you—fans—risk their lives for me? Really?”

I barely resisted rolling my eyes.  _Dude, move on!_ “It isn’t that extreme, I promise. Like I said, I probably wouldn’t have done it myself if I had thought about it. But you do matter to us, you know. I realise that is sometimes lost in translation, and… Well, you know.”

He shook his head, his mouth firming. “No, that is simply not acceptable anymore. I need to know… How could I never see how much I mean to you?”

_Shut up, he doesn’t mean you, he means Cumberbitches. Close your mouth. Breathe!_ “Um,” I said, as Sherlock slipped out from under the table, plopping down in my lap and looking at Benedict with his chin on the table.

Benedict brightened a bit. “And who is this?”

“Oh,” I said eloquently, still focusing on breathing. “This is my brand new puppy. He’s a Lurcher.”

“Yeah, I see that,” Benedict mumbled as he gave Sherlock his hand to sniff.

It is a sad commentary on the state of the world when a person is jealous of their own pet. I wonder if I could somehow get Sherlock to tell me how Benedict smells. I have heard he smells divine. Maybe if I get an Ouija board…

“What’s his name?”

_Well, fuck._  “His name? Oh. Um,” I began.  _Thou shall not blush. You are a grown-ass woman, you do NOT need to blush over a name!!_ “Sherlock.” But apparently, I can turn purple. Jesus Christ! I am turning into Vernon Dursley.

“That’s a nice name, isn’t it?” said Benedict to my pup, who promptly left my lap to scramble over the table into his. “Do you like it, mate?”

The traitor. I am never washing my dog again. I want to be my dog.

““Is your leg okay now?”

“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “Doesn’t exactly hurt anymore, but its still not fully healed.”

“Good. No, I mean… Well, hope it heals up soon. Would you like some coffee?” When I nodded, speechless, he started to get up.

I stood up too quickly. “I’ll get it, thank you.” I barely resisted the urge to ask him not to disappear. While I ordered my coffee, I tried not to think about the fact that I was having coffee with Benedict Cumberbatch.  _Benedict Cumberbatch! BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH!_ A brief memory of Molly asking Sherlock out crossed my mind and I chuckled as I slid back into my seat, where Benedict was still seated, and my dog was literally purring like a cat in his lap.

But Benedict was looking a bit preoccupied, and I decided to let him break the silence.

“I hardly do anything for my fan base.”

_Say what now?_ I made a rude noise that could have been a mix between a derisive snort and a  _pfft_ sound. “Yeah, sure. Why not. Three movies in post-production, one about to release. Shooting another series of Sherlock— _finally—_ and not to mention the theatre this summer. Let’s not forget autographs given out when you walk in the streets, pictures taken with fans, and the whole just being brilliant thing.”

“But it’s not enough,” he insisted as Sherlock cued into his morose mood and licked his chin—the highest he could reach—from his position on Benedict’s lap. Okay, I am definitely jealous of my dog. “I don’t—I am not… I never thought that… I thought—”

“That’s not true,” I countered. “Well, what you are saying makes no sense. What you are _trying_ to say makes no sense either. You have actually gone on record praising us. You don’t engage with us as much as… I don’t know, Justin Beiber maybe, yes, but it’s not your job, is it? You have a hell of a lot more to do with your life. Your public image is not your private life. That is something to be  _glad_  of. And who can blame you?”

“Sorry?” Benedict’s hand was stroking Sherlock’s back slowly. Sherlock yipped happily. I want to be my dog so bad it hurts. With some difficulty, I raise my gaze from those beautiful hands, long fingers lightly petting shaggy fur.

I took a deep breath. “Do you want me to be honest, Mr. Cumberbatch?” He nodded. “I detest the reporters and journalists who search the internet for scandalous material and hand it to you so that your reaction can become their next pay check. In the fandom, I believe you are like an impressionist painting. You mean something different to everyone. Lisa wrote to you because she is scared shitless but cannot let her Mom see that. So they don’t talk about her cancer at all. But she knows that you have faced death four times before, and you understand her fears of dying. There are others of course. Other people who learn from you. You taught me how to live a life less ordinary. How to want more than I have. You gave me that drive. Of course it is not always that dense and dark, but we are still inspired by you. We are proud of you, and we do love you. In the non-freaky, non-stalker way, of course.”

I have stunned Benedict Cumberbatch. I don’t know whether or not he is listening anymore. His eyes are a bit wide—I can see the whites—and his hand has stilled on Sherlock’s shaggy fur. His perfect cupid’s bow lips are slightly apart.

I am on a roll, however, and I don’t think I can stop. I do stop, however, when my text alerts sounds. That wouldn’t be something to distract me, usually, but it is Sherlock Holmes, and he says, “I’ve got a text” somewhere from the vicinity of my back pocket. _Ruh-roh_.  _Maybe he didn’t notice._

Fuck, he noticed. Three cheers for the crinkly smiling eyes.

“You’re interesting.” His eyes are smouldering at me. I can see the brown fleck. Laser eyes. Can’t breathe. Save me. Or don’t. Who needs breathing anyway? “Help me figure this shit out, Faith.”

He remembered my name. I am definitely going to swoon. “What do you need?”

He is silent for a moment, stroking his lips with his right hand. His brow is furrowed. He is thinking. “If I wanted to interact with my fans, I would be opening myself to a lot of unpleasant things.”

“Not if you had a filter,” I say, suddenly inspired. “Look, Mr. Cumberbatch, if this little incident is making you feel guilty enough to be more fan-friendly, don’t just go around reading random Tumblr posts.” He winced. “I am serious. You can be scarred for life. Employ someone, whose job it will be to, you know, open all fan letters, maybe make an official fan email address, and filter all the stuff before handing it to you. They could sign one of those contracts which stop you from telling people what you are doing. A fan liaison, if you will. I mean, they could even put the letters in order of severity or something.”

“Order of severity?”

“You know,” I made a vague hand gesture. “There are the ‘I love you so much!’ letters. Then there are the ‘I am dying, please know that you made my life a happy one and there is no tragedy in that’ letters.”

“The  _what_ letters?” His beautiful eyes are wide. He looks like he just fell through a rabbit hole.

“A mild exaggeration, Mr. Cumberbatch. Jeez, lighten up!” I smiled to take the sting out of my words. “We both know it is tough to deal with so many fans—who absolutely adore you—from different continents, countries, customs, etc. So don’t. Just carry on as you have, we don’t need anything more from you. Rat-tat-tat!” I said, putting up a finger as he opened his perfect lips. “Let me finish.  _If_  my incurable insanity has made you desperate enough to try being more fan-friendly—which is what you already are—please don’t do it yourself. Ask someone you trust, or a college student or something, and make them sign that thing. Anyone, just not you. You would probably not like everything you saw, and frankly, we usually make stuff for other fans, not you.”

“I would look like a pompous arse if I did this,” he groaned. “Who needs a different person entirely to connect to their fanbase?”

I shrugged. “The fan base is thirty-five million strong. Officially. Nobody even knows the unofficial numbers. Nobody needs to know. And it’s just an idea. You are not too tech-savvy, sir. This is not even your job. Fangirls are a by-product of fame, not the core of it.”

“But fangirls are the reason I am famous.”

“No,” I shook my head vigorously—and a little stubbornly. “Your talent is the reason you are famous. You’re too sensitive for your own good, Mr. Cumberbatch. My advice? Don’t do it. Carry on exactly as you have. You already love us more than we deserve.”

“No,” said the over-sensitive mule in front of me. “I want more interaction.”

I just sipped my coffee. He looked down into his. “I tried looking for it.”

For what? A McDonald’s toy in the coffee? “Umm?”

“Your friend’s letter,” he clarified, still morose. “I couldn’t find it. I opened dozens, but I couldn’t find it. I think I  _will_  hire someone.” He started stroking his lips, a sure sign that he was thinking. “Thank you.”

I didn’t even mention the fact that it wasn’t what I had set out to convince him to do. Sherlock was sniffing at Benedict’s neck. The slimy bastard!

“Um, I need to go,” I said, surprised to hear myself say it. I was wilfully leaving the company of Benedict Cumberbatch. No one was dragging me. Damn. “I have a job interview later.”

Benedict was still stroking his lips, deep in thought. “What? Oh, yes. Of course.”

I waited. And waited. “May I have my puppy back?”


	4. Chapter 4

“How was the inter—interoo, Mommy?”

“Interview,” I corrected absently as I kissed Maya’s forehead. She snuggled back into her blankets, ready for sleep. We had spent the entire evening talking about her day at school, and so the topic of my interview had shifted to after the bedtime story. After all, who can compete with my angel’s first-ever origami lesson? “It was… good. Okay.” That was a perfectly adequate answer. I did _not_ need to expand on that.

Damn it all. “Are you very sleepy, baby?”

“No,” came the quick and standard reply. “Another story?”

“No, I just…” I am so lonely right now with Lisa in the Hospital that I am telling my daughter about my horrendous interview. “I wanted to answer your question correctly. It went very bad.”

Maya looked at me with her sea-green eyes. “Why? Didn’t you know the answer?”

“I did, baby,” I said. “I was going to get the job. But then he tried to bad-touch me.”

Maya’s eyes widened. And to think I had been worried about her getting nightmares. Pfft. She looked absolutely riveted. “Oh. So what did you do, Mummy?”

“I hit him with my knee,” I said, smiling. “In his special place, like I taught you. He squealed and fell down.” I grinned as Maya giggled and gave little, endearing snorts. “And do you remember what else I taught you to do when that happens?”

“Tell Mummy,” said Maya promptly, with no small amount of pride for remembering that. “Did you call _Nani_ [1]?”

My grin dimmed a little. “No, baby. But I am telling you. You tell me, I tell you. Promise?”

“Yes, Mommy. Promise.”

Sherlock barked from his position on the floor beside the bed. There was a soft rustling as he settled into his basket-cum-bed.

I smiled again, and then left her to sleep, switching on her beloved Dora the Explorer on my way.

Right. Time for a tub of ice-cream and crappy television. Pity parties are usually better with company, but I don’t want to go online today, in a first. When it had struck me I had had a conversation with Benedict Cumberbatch in public, I had gone onto Twitter and YouTube, certain I was going to be in the latest shaky-cam videos of Benedict. But I wasn’t. Awesome.

It wasn’t like we were dying of hunger, I know. We still have loads of money left from what can politely be referred to as the divorce settlement. In reality, I took all I could from Vijay legally, then stole all the rest while I was still technically his wife and could operate his bank accounts. We are fucking flush, which is why we can afford to live in London, but maybe this was not the best place to relocate to. It was far enough, but so were a lot of the other, cheaper choices. I shouldn’t have come to London.

All I need to do is finish writing my novel and publish it. I had applied as a writer in my Visa, and it was a fucking long struggle since I have a Bachelor in Technology (Computer Science and Engineering) instead. However lofty my degree sounds, I have made a vow to not do anything I don’t want to unless there’s a crying need for it. I have wanted to write since I was ten years old, and I will finish my novel even if I have to fight tooth and nail for it.

It took me five hours to stop pitying myself and focus on my resolve. I looked at the clock. Half past one in the morning. Nice.

My phone rang. It was an unknown number.

Icy cold fear slithered up my spine as I froze like a deer in headlights. He had found me. He knew where I was, and he was going to catch me again, just like he said. _You’re mine. I’ll never let you go._ Without thinking about it, I curled up my legs, huddling like a scared baby on the sofa.

It took me a while to understand that the ringing in my ears was not due to rushing blood, and that the phone was still ringing. I had completely lost track of who I was, where I was, in a split second. I had reverted to being the scared, cornered animal he had made me, just because of a midnight phone call.

And that thought made me irrationally angry. Fuck it all. Was I going to let him do this to me again? You bet your ass not.

I snatched the phone up with hands now shaking in anger. “Hello?”

“’Lo,” slurred someone on the other end. Someone with what has been described as a rich baritone. “You do it.”

I gasped. Not because the man on the other end was drunk, but because I recognized that voice. _What the motherfucking hell?_ “Mr. Cumberbatch?”

“Dad?” There was a bit of rustling as he probably looked around for his father. “Nope. No, jus’ me m’fraid.”

 _Oh._ _Mr. Cumberbatch is Mr. Carlton in his head. That is fifty shades of adorable, isn’t it?_ “Hello, Benedict.”

“Hello,” he said cheerfully. “I figured it all out. Took me more than a few drinks to see the solution, but I saw it,” he chortled, because apparently what he had just said was funny. As I was only drunk on chocolate ice-cream, I couldn’t tell for sure.

“Where are you?” _Please, God, let him be safe and inside his home right now. With friends, or something._

“Adam’s. He—he said I should sleep it off now,” came the mostly-slurred reply. “Said he’d help me find the letter. Alice too. Adam made me a drink. Faith, help me find the goddamn letter?”

“Um,” I said eloquently. “Where are Adam and Alice now?”

“Makin’ sweet loooooove,” he giggled. A hiccup. “I mean, asleep.”

There is just something about a giggling Benedict Cumberbatch that feels like a gift from God. “You want me to find Lisa’s letter?”

“Yeah,” he said. I heard rustling as he shifted. Possibly in bed then. “Please?”

 _Doesn’t this man know I’d rip out my own heart and feed it to my puppy if he asked?_ “Maybe it’s one of those ideas that only feel good when you are drunk, Mr. Cum—Benedict.”

“Mr. Benedict,” he mimicked, conveniently forgetting I had said the first syllable of his surname. He started laughing, the deep laughter of a man well and truly pissed.

I grinned. “Tell you what. How about you call and meet me tomorrow, anywhere you want, mid-morning. You’ll have a chance to deal with your hangover, and Maya will be in school, and I will help you find it. _If_ you still think it’s a good idea, that is.”

“Um hmm,” came the eloquent reply. The volume and softness of his voice made me think he was about to sleep. “’Kay. Tomorrow. G’night.”

_Go to sleep, and when you wake up, Im’ma hit that that thing again._

Since he was already half-asleep, I said a quick goodbye, disconnected, hugged the sofa cushions and screamed myself hoarse in them so as to not wake up my daughter.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-  
  


“So, Benedict drunk-dialled you.”

“Yep.”

“ _Benedict_ drunk-dialled you.”

“Yep.”

“Benedict _drunk-dialled_ you.”

“Yep.”

“Benedict drunk-dialled _you_.”

“Yep.”

Lisa sat back in her hospital bed. “Huh. I have absolutely no idea how to react. Why is my letter affecting him so much?”

I squirmed on my uncomfortable visitor’s chair. “He’s a Cancer. They’re overly sensitive.”

“Cancer,” snorted Lisa. “Speaking of, did you see my detached tit? That was—”

“Stressful? Traumatic? Tragic?”

“Hilarious,” Lisa corrected. “Hey, random guy on the Tube! Wanna grope my tits? The left one is floating in a jar at home. I will get a new one, but I really need cash for that. How about you try again in a couple of years, eh?”

I smiled. The loss of her breast obviously bothers Lisa, but she is so determined to see the bright side in it that it doesn’t make sense for me to pity her. She has been joking about it non-stop, and still thanks God all the time for giving her cancer in a removable part of the body. In short, Lisa is so positive she makes me feel like I am soaking up the sun most of the time. I love everything about her: from the strawberry blonde bob-cut to the outrageously purple toenails. “I love you.”

Her eyes smiled even as she pretended to be shocked. “Faith, um… You should know I consider myself married to my work and while I am flattered by your interest I am not really looking for any—“ That was as far as she got before dissolving into a fit of giggles. I joined in.

As if on cue, the main theme of Sherlock started playing on my phone. My ringtone. It was the same number, from last night.

“ _Oh, holy fuck!_ ” I yelled, completely forgetting I was in the hospital. “What should I do?” I stage-whispered to Lisa. “He’s calling me! He’s calling me!” I might have stood up and thrust my phone in her face, but I am not exactly a hundred percent sure. I can’t breathe!

“Answer it! You have to answer it!!” Lisa’s eyes were bright as she looked at my phone like it was a juicy McDonald’s burger. She might even be salivating.

“Answer it?” I said. There seems to be some sort of lag between my brain and the rest of my body. My brain is stuck in a litany of _He called me, he called me, he called me, he called me…_

Lisa reached out and tapped ‘Answer’. “Say something.”

I hastily attached the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Erm, hello, Faith,” came his voice. And my ovaries exploded. “It’s Benedict. Erm, Benedict Cumberbatch.”

I barely stifled—barely—hysterical laughter. He was identifying himself. What the fuck? The sound I made in the end was probably a gurgle of some sort.

“Is this an okay time to call?”

 _Yeah, it’s the perfect time to call. I don’t have any pressing calls from international celebrities on my agenda for the next century. Go on._ “Yes, of course it is, Mr. Cumberbatch. Hello. Are you—“ _hung-over?_ “—feeling better this morning?”

I could almost hear his wince on the phone. “I am sorry about last night. I was drunk.”

“I know. And sleepy,” I couldn’t help it. I snickered. “You don’t have to apologise, Mr. Cumberbatch, you’re a grown man who can drink all he wants. And you don’t have to ask me not to tell anyone. I just told Lisa, and we will take the secret of midnight drunk-dialling to our grave. Promise.”

“Oh,” was the reply. He sounded a bit dazed. “Alright. Listen, um, I do remember asking your help in sorting out my fan-mail.”

“Not a great idea come morning, is it?” I asked.

“So you don’t want to help?”

 _Whoa. Hold up._ “So you want me to help?”

“Yeah…” He trailed off. “Look, is it a good time to see you face to face while I explain this?”

“Face-to-face,” I repeated dumbly. “Yeah. Sure. Absolutely.”

Because this is my life now. Midnight phone calls and café appointments with Benedict Cumberbatch. How the fuck did this happen?

“Perfect. Could you meet me now? In the café we met in yesterday?”

I was already putting my shoes back on.

* * *

“Why me?” _And if I sound just a bit baffled, sir, pardon me. After all, you have taken leave of your senses. I am entitled to a little bafflement. I had been Googling “How to dress to meet a celebrity” in the taxi, for Christ’s sake!_

“It’s not as simple,” he sighed. “I know you’re discreet. John—my agent—says you haven’t even mentioned me online. You haven’t told a soul, and that is exactly what I am looking for. Making you sign a confidentiality contract is absurd, but I have faith in you.” He paused for a big while. “I have a habit of putting all those letters away and forgetting about them. They have collected over the years… There’s tons of them. It’s a big job to go through all of them, but… I’d like it if you could—you know, um…”

“Do it for you, since you have rehearsals for your play and can’t find the time even though you really, _really_ want to?”

“… Erm, yeah.”

“Okay,” I breathed out. Frankly, I was still surprised I was making coherent sounds in the English Language. “How do we do this?”

“Simple,” he said, definitely more cheerful now that I had agreed. “You meet me here again, I hand over the carton I toss all those letters in, you sort it all out from the comfort of your home.” Apparently, he does need to breathe, because he paused to take a breath. “And then you return the good ones to me on a regular basis.” His tone made the _Ta-da!_ redundant and obvious. “I answer them, the good ones, and return them to you to be mailed back.”

“You’re still drunk, aren’t you?”

I could see the hurt expression set in. “What? No!”

“You are willing to interact with me regularly? Seriously? You keep giving me the new letters, and I keep giving you the sorted ones. Is that what you are saying? I am a _fangirl_ , sir. You know nothing about me! Are you sure you want to interact with me regularly? Without a written agreement to protect you?”

“It wouldn’t exactly be needed, would it? I mean, we need to decide what to pay you, and once we have agreed on that, maybe John can—”

“Paid?” I was sure I looked incredulous. Good, because I was. “You are going to _pay_ me?”

He gave me an incredulous look in turn. “Well, of course. I have hoping you could make and manage a Twitter account, and all the letters—the snail mail, I mean—and even make an official fan email. If you are going to do all that for me, you are getting paid. I was thinking…” He named a sum.

“Well, sir,” I said. “Well.” Then I paused and gathered my thoughts. How to say this articulately without insulting him? “I know you met with your doctor after I jumped on you, and I know you were given a clean chit. But are you sure you didn’t damage your head?”

“You think I am brain-damaged,” he said with that smile—the one that crinkles his amazing eyes. “Is the sum unacceptable, then?”

 _No, but I think it might be enough to put someone through college._ “Don’t be absurd. It’s too much for such a simple job.”

“So, you are going to be my official fan-liaison, and no one will know. I will have my agent make up a contract.”

I nod. _You are still paying me a fortune for such an easy job._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Nani is the Hindi word for maternal grandmother.


	5. Chapter 5

Apparently, Christopher Tietjens was right, and the world did end long ago, in the eighteenth century. In those days, a verbal deal between Benedict and me would have sufficed, and I would have started handling his letters soon after.

Unfortunately, in the 21st century, handling a man’s personal correspondence meant a meeting with his agent and publicist. The taxi ride from my apartment to Broadwick Street was sheer agony, since I kept going over what they could _possibly_ want from me and what my reply to such requests would be. I wasn’t going to _answer_ Benedict’s mail, for God’s sake! I would never do that to his fans, now would I? So why did they need to talk to me? I hadn’t done anything wrong, had I? All they needed to do was sign one of those things that doesn’t permit me to tell anyone what I am doing, yeah? Do they think I am some sort of demented fangirl who has influenced Benedict into thinking I want to do this? Holy fuck, are they going to squabble over money? I _told_ him he was offering too much! Now they are going to think I have fucking grabby hands… There goes my first impression, and first impression is the last impression, and…

I seriously need to calm down. I am hyperventilating now, and the cabbie is looking at me funny. Also, I am seriously on the verge of crushing my only classy skirt to the point of no return. Alright, deep breaths.

The taxi stopped in front of a four-storied red brick building. I quickly paid the fare and jumped out, a little confused. It looked very… Ordinary. I had always imagined the fan address to be some sort of a grand office or something. The red brick building is ordinary, with the ground floor belonging to SPACE.NK.apothecary, and beauty products in the glass windows. Higher up, the windows are long and simple, clearly meant for function rather than impression. Huh. Not what I expected.

I double-checked the address, and headed in via the cute white door set against the window display. I am still not sure I am in the right place, but I can’t afford to be late. I saw the lifts, and thankfully climbed in, pressing the button for the third floor. The mirror at the back of the lift reflected a scared little girl in grown-up clothes, and I took this opportunity to relax the muscles of my face and smooth down my (slightly wrinkled) skirt. I had taken Lisa’s advice on clothing, pairing a lilac button down silk shirt with my simple black skirt. My hair was up in a sort of bun, but a few tendrils had escaped to the side of my face. Oh, well. Since Lisa had been the one to viciously tug at my hair till it behaved, I wasn’t even going to try repairing the damage. It didn’t look _that_ bad.

And I had bigger fears. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t convince myself that they were not going to find out about my past. I knew, on an intellectual level, that my name and my face were kept out of the media, but I still feared some sort of digging into my past, since it would probably label me as, to borrow Sherlock’s term, a tabloid whore.

The lift stopped and the doors dinged open. Apparently, the entire third floor was dedicated to the offices of Conway van Gelder Grant, because I stepped into a long(ish) hallway with a receptionist sitting on the far end. After her mahogany desk began a series of cubicles with diligently working people, half-hidden from view with a half-wall of crushed glass. The sound of my footsteps on the thick gray carpet was easily swallowed by the cacophony of noise that seeped from behind the wall, and I had a precious few seconds to try to remember whether I had checked my teeth for bits of breakfast before stepping out of the cab.

I will never know the answer to that crucial question, since the receptionist—an efficient-looking woman with the reddest hair and toothiest smile I have ever seen—noticed me. Ignoring my fight-or-flight instinct, squared my shoulders. _I am a grown-ass woman and I am not scared of you._

“Hi, I have an appointment with John Grant?”

“Welcome to Conway van Gelder Grant,” she intoned. “Just let me buzz you through. Name, please?”

I gave my name. She tapped some keys. Then she tapped some more keys. “Yeah, head right in. You are meeting them in the conference room, they’ve just arrived. You’re a bit early. The door directly opposite, at the far end of the hall.”

“Doesn’t he work here?”

She grinned. “Oh, no, love. This happens to be the workplace of the unfortunate bastards trying to propel obscure yet brilliant actors into the public eye. This is pretty much the smallest—and between you and me, the ugliest—offices we have,” she smiled. “Now go on, before you turn up late.”

I thanked her, smoothed my skirt for the eight hundred and thirty-ninth time, and crossed the half-wall. Nobody paid me any mind, as they were all extremely busy (other than the one gentleman in the back that may have been sleeping or dead at his desk) getting other people work. There was only a thin piece of carpet to walk on, as the cubicles took up most of the space on the left, and a row of doors, all with names on them, were on the right. I was reminded of the offices at the _Daily Planet_.

Hold up. What did she mean, ‘they’?

I got the answer as I heard ‘them’. Even though I had never heard one of the voices coming from the conference room, the other one was as familiar to me as the back of my hand.

“You are being ridiculous, John,” said the rich, deep voice that always made me think of hazelnuts dipped in hot, hot chocolate. I had to stop my smile as the statement made me think of _Sherlock_.

“How many times have I asked you if you would like a fan liaison? How many times? And no, it’s always _no_. _Don’t be ridiculous_ ,” said the man in a very bad mimicry of my favourite voice in the world. “ _I don’t need someone to talk to my fans. I will just take my millions of letters off your hands and be off! TTFN!_ ”

“John—”

“It’s always no to the need to converse with your fans. _No, I won’t think about it._ Now some random chick comes over, bats her eyelashes, and you are ready to pay her so that she may brag about your personal creep mail online?”

“She _didn’t_ offer, John, I asked her—”

“Are you mad!?! I don’t care how fucking beautiful she is or if you are getting some on the side. This woman is not to be associated with—”

I knocked on the door just to stop his infernal yammering. The nerve of that man!

They both turned as I entered, Benedict with a slight smile of welcome and John Grant with a grimace. The slightly long conference room was equipped only with the bare necessities—a really long table with a shitload of comfortable-looking chairs, a projector, and other paraphernalia that was unable to hold my attention for long. Most of my attention was on Benedict, who was looking just a little harassed. I wanted to punch John Grant just for the frown marring his features.

“Good morning, Mr. Cumberbatch, Mr. Grant,” I began, determined to be polite. After all, being one of the partners in one of the world’s best agencies can make a man brash, no need to follow his example. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Since there is only so much lying a person can do, I directed that comment straight at Benedict. My eyes travelled over his body without my permission, taking in the white T-shirt and blue shirt paired with simple blue jeans. Sherlock’s hair was in place, though it was starting to lighten just a bit.

“Sit down, girl,” said Mr. Grant. “Let’s talk this through.”

I frowned a bit at his tone and his words. Benedict fairly scowled at his agent. But I was distracted by Benedict pulling out a chair for me to sit in. He pulled out a chair. For silly old me. How does breathing work again? The first person to pull out a chair for me happens to be Benedict Cumberbatch. _Who the fuck needs breathing?_

“Good morning.”

I managed a garbled response that might have been a thank you. His smile broadened a bit, folding his skin around his eyes into creases, before he settled in front of me, next to Mr. Grant.

“What do you think you can achieve by associating yourself with Ben, Ms. …”

“I am an Indian, sir, with a weird name. You can call me Faith, though,” I replied. “I have absolutely no idea what I am supposed to do, or supposed to gain. Mr. Cumberbatch is already willing to pay me a grand crapload of money to sort out his fanmail, and I seriously thought I was here to sign some sort of gagging contract. I just want to help. I am sorry you believe I have ulterior motives.”

His forehead—all the more pronounced due to the lack of ample hair—creased into a frown. “You want me to believe you are doing this out of the goodness of your heart.” The sarcasm was thick and syrupy.

“John, enough.” Benedict rubbed his eyes with one hand. “Look, you are blowing this out of proportion. Faith obviously knows more about the fans than you and I do, which means she won’t be surprised out of her wits by every other letter.” He sighed. “You know how many letters come in here every day. I have realized I do have a responsibility to all those fans—”

“For God’s sake, Mr. Cumberbatch, for the last time—”

“— and I know I need help,” he continued, right over my protests. “I want her to sign the contract, take my letters, and help me deal with all the fans. Consider it an actor’s whim.” He shrugged.

There was a silence following that speech, broken when I muttered “No pressure, though,” just for the heck of it.

Mr. Grant snorted out a laugh. Maybe the man wasn’t as hopeless as I thought. “Oh, what the hell. We’ll wait and see what she’s cooking up. Plus, inside information of the fanbase may be helpful,” he said thoughtfully.

“It’s sorted then,” said Benedict. “Oh, and,” he continued, turning those laser eyes towards me. “Karen says you will help with an official Twitter account too.”

Twitter. _Twitter._ Social media. The man was going onto social media as nonchalantly as if his presence on Twitter did not spell doom for the overburdened Twitter servers. _TWITTER!_

“You are going to need a private server,” I blurted out before thinking. As Benedict’s left eyebrow winged up, I tried to think of something else. “And I am not doing it.”

“What?” Benedict frowned. “Why the hell not?”

I squirmed in my chair. He looked unhappy. Had I made him unhappy? I tried to swallow back the urge to say sorry. I was taking a stand, and it had taken me years to learn how to do that. “I am sorry,” I said anyways. “But I can’t do that. The whole point of a personal Twitter account of a celebrity is a one-on-one interaction between the celeb and the fans. I can’t steal that away from my sisters—and brothers. Under no circumstances am I going to impersonate you.”

Mr. Grant looked a little stunned. Benedict was smirking sideways at him with an I-told-you-so expression. Had I said something good? Oh God, none of this was going as it should.

“It is just an official account, To dispense precise information, not personal. An official account for official… notices, if you will. You will put up whatever Karen gives you. Karon is—”

“I know. Karon Maskill, publicist.”

“Yeah, so, anyways, you are only to, I don’t know, help with that part. Monitor replies, create hype, that sort of thing.”

“Right.” I sat back into the chair. _I can do that. Maybe._

“You will do. Probably. We will see. I will talk to you later about what all you are to do,” said Mr. Grant. “Right now, you may leave.”

“John, for God’s sake—”

“Here’s my phone number,” he continued, taking out a business card. “I don’t want to be disturbed at all unless it is a life or death situation. Understood?”

I could feel my eyebrows winging up at the condescending manner. In direct—and childish—retaliation, I refused to take the card. “I know your business phone number, Mr. Grant. +442072870077, if I am not wrong.”

Benedict barely managed to convert a laugh into a snort. I felt like preening.

“Yes, well,” said Mr. Grant, blinking rapidly. “Let’s lay out your duties.”

Huh. I had probably changed his mind with my weird behaviour. That was a first.


	6. Chapter 6

He isn’t paying me enough for this.

I looked around my living room, which was now scattered with various piles and pieces of paper strewn about. Most of these were heart-warming letters of appreciation that would probably mean a lot to Benedict once I got these back to him. A few were disturbingly intimate, and the rest were either outright porn or hate mail.

At the moment, I’d rather read some more of the (rare) hate mail.

_Dear Benedict,_

_For a single man travelling around the world repeatedly, life can get monotonous and boring, especially without a companion. I would like to join you on your journeys, discreetly, and look after your special needs. We can simply come to a sort of understanding, and I would have no problems in accompanying you._

_Think about it. I am not embarrassed by my body, and can easily suck your cock while you are in transit. I can be discreet if you are shy about getting it on. I have experience with fucking in an aeroplane bathroom, and I would love the opportunity to demonstrate. I have a nice, tight ass, which is not even a virgin one, though it is tight. You can have all three of my holes, whenever you want. No kink is too kinky._

_I am enclosing my medical history, along with a photograph. Let me know at the number given at the back of the photograph._

_Yours,_

_Kitty._

Oh, so _that’s_ why Benedict fears interacting with us.

I sighed as I set about processing the letter. When I had first signed the contract, we had decided several things. Benedict had said that meeting in a public place again and again was too risky, and our luck was going to run out someday. I had, in turn, suggested my home as a rendezvous point whenever the need arose, so that it was easier for me. He had agreed. The next day, Karon Maskill had personally arrived with a gigantic carton in her arms. Those were the letters I was supposed to sort. I had absolutely no fucking idea how I was going to do this, but she had asked me to use whatever method I deemed good. We had a chat about what I was allowed to do and not allowed to do. I could read the fanmail and sort it, and then forward it _all_ to Benedict. I was not allowed to throw any letter in the fire, no matter what it contained. I had told her I simply had no intention of doing so. Then she had left.

That had been six days ago. Since then, I have been pulling letter after letter from the bottomless carton. I have read enough sleazy porn to bring down Literotica’s servers, seen enough pictures with requests of autographs to paper all the walls in my flat, and heard his eyes described using every word in the dictionary.

I had been afraid he was paying me a lot. Now I can easily say I am earning every fucking penny.

I have also developed a system. I have decided to keep a digital record of all the letters, and so the first step is clicking a picture of the letter. Next, I assign the letter a number. The digital files are numbered exactly the same. Maya has actually helped here, by writing numbers up to one thousand (the highest she knows) on separate slips of a post-it pad. All I have to do is rip the post-it off the pad and attach it to the letter before adding it to the correct bin.

I have nine bins that contain the sorted letters. They are glorified waste-paper baskets with the following labels:

1\. Read these first

2\. Dedicated Fans (Sherlock + Other Projects)

3\. Sherlock Fans

4\. I need money

5\. Our NGO/cause would like a donation

6\. Porn (include materials like underwear, etc)

7\. Hate Mail (do not read)

8\. Gifts

9\. Foreign Language

I have been making up the bins as I go along. For letters in languages other than English, I have been using Google Translate for a rough translation (and to recognise the language). I have personally translated the eight Hindi ones I have found, but I think he needs to find experts for the others.

I have been thinking about moving this whole mess to my bedroom. Maya keeps walking in, and I don’t want her seeing something objectionable (a certain pair of hot pink crotch-less panties comes to mind). Plus, Sherlock knows he is not welcome in my room ever since he ate the first copy of my manuscript (all praise digital backup), and shifting in there is a good way of making sure he doesn’t eat anything.

But for now, it’s time for a sandwich. Dinner was ages ago.

I paused in the act of getting my ass unglued from the sofa. My phone was chiming out _Can’t Keep It Inside_ from _August: Osage County_. Benedict’s special ringtone. He’s calling me.

The man has been too busy to actually call me this last week, and now that he has, I am nervous. I have absolutely no idea what to say. Oh, well.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” he replied. “Am I calling too late?”

“Of course not, sir,” I chuckled. “I have a job now, I was working.”

“You could call me by name, you know,” he sighed. “Most of my fans do. Were you sorting the letters?”

“Yeah, _sir_. And may I point out none of your fangirls are currently employed by you?”

He laughed, as I had hoped he would. “May I come visit you now?” Before I had time to reply, he backtracked. “Oh, God, no, wait—you live alone. I mean, with your daughter. It’s almost midnight, of course it’s not okay. Please ignore that. I was just in the neighbourhood, and I thought I’d swing by, and… Just ignore the stupidity.”

Aww, Babblebatch. “I shall ignore that, and tell you that yes, you may visit me. Come get the letters I have already sorted.”

Once he had agreed to be there, I realized I was wearing a pair of cotton shorts and a t-shirt. Also, my apartment was a mess. Oh, crumpets. When was the last time I had washed my hair again?

I dashed about the living room, trying to clean up. It reminded me a bit of Sherlock in _A Study in Pink_ , and I was about as effective really. My house was a mess, my clothes were a mess, and even my hair was a mess. The only neat things in the entire room were the bins with the letters in them.

I also desperately tried to tidy up the bathroom off the living room in case he needed to use the facilities. As I passed the wash-basin, I tried to ascertain the degree to which I looked like a zombie. My chestnut brown hair was wild and loose over my shoulders, and my muddy green eyes were a bit wild. My skin never was pale by British standards, since I am an Indian, but right then I was flushed with worry and the exertion.

Right, let’s just straighten up the living room again.

The bell rang. I stood frozen with a toddler-sized sneaker in one hand and a plate of nachos in the other, seriously debating talking to him out in the hall. I looked at my bright red baggy t-shirt and black shorts, sighing. It really was a lost battle, wasn’t it? But I still brushed a hand through my hair before opening the door.

In direct contrast, Benedict Cumberbatch looked gorgeous. But then again, I am a fangirl. He would look good to me in a hot pink tutu with a glittery tiara on his head. But I like the blue jeans and gray jacket over a simple white t-shirt. I love this jacket, which he started wearing sometime during the promotions for Star Trek, with its thick, black upturned collar and the way the gray brought out his eyes.

I didn’t notice I was staring at him.

“Hello,” he said, pulling me out of my reverie.

“Oh, um, hello, Mr. Cumberbatch.” Is there any way to discretely check for drool on your face?

“Do you think I could maybe come in? Before someone sees me here, I mean,” his smile was a little awkward, but I think I had earned that.

“Yes, oh God, of course,” I barely restrained myself from reaching for his arm and physically pulling him in. Instead, I moved to one side, and caught a whiff of heavenly (and no doubt expensive) aftershave. Oh yum. Since his back was to me for a second before he turned, I was sorely tempted to check for drool. “Please, have a seat,” I said instead, gesturing to the sofa I had been sitting on for the past two hours. I wasn’t exactly sure there wasn’t any hidden debris anywhere else. “Would you like some tea? Or coffee?”

He smiled. “Coffee, please, if you don’t mind. I appreciate it.”

“Just a tic, sir,” I said, before hurrying to the kitchen. “Feel free to look through any of the letters in those bins!” A second later, I smiled as he laughed out loud, probably having read the labels on the bins. My frantic search of the cupboards _did_ yield a solitary pack of Demerara sugar, which I knew he liked in his coffee. So I brought it along to accompany the coffee cake I had made earlier that day.

When I finally made it back to my living room, Benedict had a letter in his right hand, while the fingers of his left hand tapping on the ratty armrest of my second-hand sofa. He looked utterly focused as he read, not just skipping through the words he surely must have read a thousand times before, in some letter or the other. And still the man stubbornly believed he was not doing enough for his fans. The dork.

I waited till he smiled and put down the letter. Then I moved away from the kitchen doorway and into his line of sight. “Here you are Skip, nice hot cup of coffee. Sorry, couldn’t resist.”

Benedict looked uncomprehending.

“Huh,” I said. “Never mind. Would you do me a favour, sir?” When he nodded, I hunted up an A4 sheet and handed it to him, putting the tray that had carried his coffee underneath it to act as an impromptu writing surface. “Write whatever you want to.”

“Sorry, Faith, you are not making a lot of sense. Or, more likely, I really do need that coffee.” He laughed as I sat down on the opposite end of the sofa, keeping a respectable distance between us. “What am I supposed to be writing?”

“A response to…” I trailed off as I tilted my head to read the name on the end of the letter. “Katie.”

“Oh, of course,” he said, starting to write. “I really need that coffee, apparently.”

“Here,” I said, smiling broadly as I put it on the side-table next to him, along with the sugar and extra milk. “Just write down a quick response, sir, and I will mail it back later. She’s the one who wrote a school paper on Vincent with only _Painted With Words_ as a reference, right?”

Benedict looked up from the sheet and grinned like a teenager. “Yeah!”

I smiled indulgently and let him continue with his reply. When he was done, I slapped on a numbered post-it (going to need different colour pads) and put it aside. Benedict sipped his coffee with a raised eyebrow in the meantime. “I like Demerara,” he said after I was done putting the letter away (going to need a bin for all the replies too).

“Hmm, I know,” I muttered without thinking, too intent on finding someplace in my living room my dog wouldn’t reach it and rip it to pieces. A second later, the potentially stalky nature of my comment slammed into me, and I began to explain. And stutter, mostly. “Sorry! No, I didn’t mean it in a creepy stalker way! It was in an article, like, ages ago, and I… Just sorry, sir! I’ll be more careful not to say something in the future…” I trailed off as I realized Benedict was doubled up with laughter. He was giggling, his fist covering his mouth, chin tucked in. “Ah, um, well,” I finished eloquently.

“Stop, don’t worry so much,” he said between giggles. “It’s alright.”

I sat back, smiled, and lapsed into silence. “You know what?”

“Hmm?”

“I signed a gigantic contract last week—all forty-two exceptionally boring and hardly intelligible pages of it—that says I can’t talk about my association with you at all. No one other than my daughter and my dog can know.”

“Yeah?” he drawled, with an eyebrow winging up in tandem.

“So you can totally relax, yeah? I mean, take off your bulky jacket, if you like, sit back— _lounge back_ —and say whatever the fuck you like. I won’t tell anyone if you look like anything less than a perfectly polite and diplomatic fashion-plate, even if I could.” I gestured vaguely to his straight-backed posture that frankly reminded me of Khan.

His eyes lit up, converting them from silver to laser blue. He seemed to deflate suddenly, and his grin folded the skin around his eyes into adorable crinkles. _Must. Not. Pinch. Cheeks. Of. Grown-ass. Man._ “Right. That’s right. Thanks!” He promptly took off his jacket, and settled further into the cushions on his side of the sofa. “So, how are you?”

“Perfect, sir,” I replied in all honesty. “I got a new job since I saw you last, did I tell you?” Mirth danced in his eyes as he joined in with a shake of his head. “Well, I did. It is a bit unconventional, but I can’t really tell you. It’s legal, of course. But this is an amazing opportunity, because I am easily going to be earning enough to stop digging into my nest egg. And I can write my book without worrying a lick.”

“That’s amazing,” said Benedict, his eyes comically wide. “Is all this—” he gestured at the debris around my living room “—part of your top-secret job?”

“Yeah,” I managed, before we both started giggling again. My mission was accomplished though, since Benedict was now completely at ease, and the strain of the day seemed to be leaving his shoulders now. Like I said, mission accomplished. “How were rehearsals?” Every Cumberbitch worth her salt knew he was in the upcoming George Bernard Shaw’s _Pygmalion_.

“Great!” he enthused. “There is a lot of physical movement on stage, and that always worries me, because so many things can actually go wrong. But it’s wonderfully written and beautifully directed, so I have complete faith it will turn out well.” His head dropped down to the back of the sofa, then snapped up again. “Hey, how did you know I was at rehearsals?”

“Well,” I said. “I know you are in _Pygmalion_ , and the rehearsals have already started. You came here at midnight, which is not exactly a time for socializing, though you did say you were just in the neighbourhood. Plus, you don’t know how long you will stay here, since we don’t exactly have a time limit. So you were returning from somewhere, with no agenda for the rest of the night, and you were so tired you didn’t realize this is not a socializing hour.” I shrugged and stole a line from _Sherlock_. “Hardly a difficult deduction.”

“Are you Sherlock Holmes?”

I smiled and popped the _p_ sound on my answering “nope”.

“So,” he said after a while. “That’s a good system,” he waved a hand towards the letter bins. “Nice, with all the numbering and all.”

“Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that, actually. If you are not too tired,” I hastened to add. “Just a quick talk-through of the system we use.”

Benedict put the warm cup he had been cradling away and sat up straighter. “Yeah, sure.”

“Right. First things first. I am kind of going to need you to sign loads of pictures of you. Like bulk autographs, so that I can slip one in each of the letters I post back to the fangirls. I talked to Karon about that yesterday, but I can see from your face that she hasn’t told you yet. We were thinking promotional shots from last week’s photo-shoot of Pygmalion, and Sherlock pictures…” I trailed off, waiting for a reaction.

“Yeah, sure,” he replied easily enough. “I will just whip my sharpie out, and sign beautiful shots of my ugly mug by the dozen,” he said with another smile. I seem to be teasing them out surprisingly easily. “Done. What else?”

“Nothing else at the moment, really,” I replied, before remembering the letter I had wanted to show him. I had wanted him to see it so much I had almost picked up my phone and called him on the number he still hadn’t explicitly told me I could use. “Wait, you should see this,” I said as I delved into the first bin.

“Aha! Eureka!” I handed him the single sheet with flair, and watched a big grin bloom on his face as he read this:

“Oh my God, that is fucking adorable.”

“My sentiments exactly, sir.”

“Oh shit, I cursed,” he winced. “And again. Are you sure your daughter won’t hear us?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied with an indulgent smile. “She’s dead to the world.”

He hummed in reply. “I am going to visit at a better hour next time, and meet her. There’s still that story she wants me to read,” he added a bit absent-mindedly as he dug into the first bin for more.

My heart melted. Could this man be any more perfect?

* * *

Later, when I had locked the door after him and cleaned away the coffee cup and the plate (not that the plate needed cleaning, the man really _did_ have a sweet tooth), my phone chimed.

**_Cabin Pressure! It was cabin pressure. The line about hot coffee. I googled ;-)_ **

****

_Yeah, it was. Good 4 you, sir._

**_Thanks for that. It was a lovely hour spent with you, and I do believe we are friends now. Call me Benedict._ **

****

_Ok, Benedict. Glas yio liked ut._

**_???_ **

****

_Sorry, shaky fingers. Autocorrect never works when it shud. I am glad you liked it, hope I didn’t bore you too much._

**_Not at all. See you again soon. I had fun! Good night :)_ **

****

_Good night, Benedict :)_

There were no more texts. He asked me to call him by name. _I am going to call him by name_. Oh goodness me, ** _I AM FRIENDS WITH BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH!_**

****

I should probably buy a thick pillow to squeal in every time he visits, or my daughter’s sleep will get disrupted.

* * *


End file.
